Jacknife
by roxxy-by-proxxy
Summary: (assassin AU) Bob is a talented killer with a long history of success. After his newest hit on a certain television clown goes awry,ending in his arrest, Bob vows to finish the job. He soon finds, however that he's not the only assassin after Krusty.


**Prologue in Haven**

*Title Origin: Goethe's Faust, Part 1, Prologue in Heaven

"How have you been doing, Bob?" Asks the man as the two step into an unassuming safe house. It was a bit musty, but opening the windows wasn't something they could do, not without opening themselves up to potential espionage, intentional or not. The house itself was located somewhere in the less populated area of town, just one of many safe houses the agency owned scattered across the world.

"The vacation from my last job was a welcome relief, but I am sorely disappointed in being relocated to this uncultured backwater town. Seriously, am I, one of the better agents, to put up with being shuttled off to this-"

The Handler cut him off, checking the rooms, although he was certain they were alone. This safe house was under constant surveillance and no one else had booked this location for any meetings in the near future.

"Now, Bob, I know you're upset, but we needed to get you off the grid and out of the potential police investigation. That last kill of yours was messier than we'd expected of you. We're lucky we have people on the inside to cover up mishaps like these, but the higher ups wanted me to let you know that we can only cover so many of your mistakes." The handler reminded Bob firmly.

"Duly noted." Bob responded flatly, maintaining a tone of respect and courtesy. He followed The Handler to their usual 'meeting room'. Simply put, it was the dining room, away from windows, any potentially jammed or tapped outside doors.

The Handler was a very nondescript man, painfully average. Brown hair, brown eyes, no defining facial features that couldn't be said of your average joe walking down the street. Bob didn't know his name, it was part of protocol. If something were to happen to him, if he were in a position to spill secrets he couldn't give much of a name.

Bob himself, was the complete opposite. He was cursed-or blessed- with a very distinct appearance. Wild, curly red hair, that looked not unlike a palm tree and to add insult to injury, overly large feet that made shoe shopping an expensively exhaustive endeavor. The only 'normal' thing about him was his face. Over the years, Bob grew to accept his appearance.

The agency itself was top secret, Bob only knew the bare details. No checks were given to him directly, all his payments were wired directly to his bank account through a myriad of proxy accounts. Oh, he had a 'day job' alright, he wasn't in dire need of money, but even he could only entertain himself for so long with his beloved collection of classic books, novels and plays. He'd see to it to try and inject some fine culture, some valuable insight from the great writers and thinkers of history into this dull town.

His endeavors so far had been less than successful.

* * *

This was not the first time Bob had been relocated, in fact it was quite normal for him to stay in one location for less than a year, only to uproot to another place, to hide his trail and get closer to a new potential target. Every town had been different, he'd seen and interacted with many people from all different walks of life. There were many that disappeared into a mere blur in his mind, and others that left a disappointing sour taste in his mind's eye. There had been a handful he'd been sorely tempted to settle down in for good, to throw away the double life he'd been living, hiding from everyone he'd known. His parents and family were especially in the dark about his true endeavors- if not because of protocol, then for his own sanity. His parents were well known in their community and carried out long respectable careers.

Killing people for money did not fall in either of those categories, nor was it legal. Every assignment he took, the higher the risks of being revealed became in both the eyes of the law and those who knew him to any real degree. Bob knew these risks well and continued on regardless.

One might ask, why would someone so highly educated, so well cultured, take up a life of assassination in the first place?

The answer was simple, whether Bob would ever admit it to anyone else, be it a soon to be victim, a fellow assassin or Handler. It was the thrill, the sense of truly utilizing his skills and smarts in a clever, thought out game. Every plan, every escape route, he'd meticulously thought up a myriad of, filtering through them all until he got to the best of the best. His prize winning scheme, pulled off by a combination of his sorely underappreciated acting skills, his natural charm and his brains, often went off without a hitch, like a well rehearsed play to an audience of one.

* * *

"I got a new job for you, think you're up to it?" Handler asked, pushing a manila envelope towards Bob.

Bob opened the file inside, scrutinizing the information, the picture of his next target.

"You've lived here now for what, three months? I'm sure you know _of_ this man. Well known celebrity." Handler began.

Bob lightly tossed the files back onto the table in disdain.

"I would have to be blind and deaf to not know who he is. My brother had an unhealthy idolization of him." Bob answered agitated, trying not to remember the second hand embarrassment he'd get thinking back on his childhood with Cecil.

He loved the man like one could love their sibling, but his near hero worship of the television clown had, on more than one occasion, almost made him want to pretend he didn't know him.

Given their rather 'unique' features, this wasn't plausible and very very rarely successful.

Thankfully, all that came to an end when Cecil had his fateful audition to be the man's dreaded sidekick. How his brother would be willing to throw his dignity to be demeaned on live television in front of a whole town, was beyond him. After he was roughly turned down, he shut up about Krusty. While Bob felt something for his brother, after the whole ordeal, there was a tinge of relief that he'd no longer have to hear of the blasted, vile clown. No longer would he have to think about living with the possibility of seeing his own brother's face on TV in such a manner.

"Good, you know who Krusty the clown is, I'll skip to the heart of the matter than. Simply put, this man owes people money. A lot of money. Those people want their money and they're tired of waiting." Handler leaned back, his face, a dim yellow brown tint from the old dining room light from above. Bob made a note to send in work order of sorts to get that fixed.

"His debtors run the gambit, many of which follow his many addictions. Drugs, sex, booze. You name the vice, it's probably there."

Bob gave a simple 'Mmhmm', letting Handler know that he was following along as he took a more detailed look at the file. The sheer numbers this one man had racked up astonished him. It was more money than he'd ever thought of having, let alone spending on such frivolous items and endeavors.

"The people he owes have decided he's worth more dead than alive, so they need him gone. We're putting you on the case."

"I see, although, pray tell, why am I being assigned to take him out?" Bob asked, fixing his reading glasses.

"You see Bob, while you've had messy kills in the past, it's been decided that you're uniquely qualified, or in the very least, the best man for the job that we've got right now. Your track record's been very good in regards to hiding yourself. You've pulled of clever plans and your acting is second to none. That's why we need you, you're gonna need to get close to this man. For someone so public, acting is a very valuable skill." Handler explained, beaming in pride at his assigned agent.

"You flatter me, sir, you really do. Although I must ask, how do you expect me to get close to Krusty?" Bob asked, folding the file neatly.

"We've got someone on the inside, hopefully they can sway his opinions on a few things, pull a few strings and get you close. No telling if it'll be on or off screen, though." Handler explained, checking his phone briefly. He made a face before putting it away.

Bob was taken aback by the prospect. "Are you implying I may have to be this man's sidekick on live television?" He gawked. The thought of wearing that hideous outfit- if one could call a grass skirt and a bone necklace an outfit- made the man's blood run cold. He'd worn equally odd things in the past, done things he'd never want to do or get involved in, to close the job. At least he'd only bruised his dignity and self worth in those situations in fairly private situations.

This would be public, not only would the entire town be ogling his odd appearance and laughing at his antics, there was a chance his family would see it too.

Bob had an idea of how that'd go down and he was not enthusiastic. His parents probably wouldn't see it thankfully, they hardly watched television in the first place. His brother on the other hand….

"I don't suppose there are any other jobs I could take? Something more..private?" Bob finally asked.

"I'll see what I can dig up, but right now it's mostly Mafia related. Maybe you could use those Italian skills of yours?" Handler suggested helplessly.

"I appreciate that you and the agency think that highly of me, that I could take on the Mafia, but even _I_ am not that bold."Bob answered dryly.

"How about this, you get this clown, get him good and I'll see what I can do about sending you to Italy. Heard we've got a promising lass over there, in some small town." Handler proposed, leaning forward.

It was damn tempting, only everyone who'd worked with him knew how much he'd been trying to get sent over there, to get promoted to a teaching position inside, training a new generation of future assassins.

"You have my word."

* * *

A/N: First time writing for The Simpsons, first time writing Bob. I think I did okay. IDK when it'll update.

This was a lot shorter than my fics usually are but oh well


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